


God-Ordained

by memesf0r0ne



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), First Kiss, I worked on this for a Not Long Time, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Prayer, Religion, Religious Discussion, this is so religious I'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22836532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memesf0r0ne/pseuds/memesf0r0ne
Summary: Churches are, quite honestly, the first place a typical human would look for an angel. But usually not if they were looking for Aziraphale; at least, not if they really knew who they were looking for.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub & Gabriel (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	God-Ordained

Churches are, quite honestly, the first place a typical human would look for an angel. But usually not if they were looking for Aziraphale; at least, not if they really knew who they were looking for. He did come to church sometimes, certainly. It was just an obligation of sorts; between the lines of the job description, he supposed. But after over two thousand years of sermons (and then some, if you count his time before Christ with the Israelites and minor prophets), there were bound to be repeats. And, if he was being unadulteratedly honest, churches often had recurring points. Especially around holidays. A good amount of churches preached the same message each Christmas, or Easter, or what have you; as if there was nothing else to gain from the passages in scripture, which was not the case. God was much more interesting than most theologians cared to admit. But these were merely Aziraphale's personal opinions, and were prone to change with the centuries anyways. Sometimes, he went to a church, chapel, or sanctuary if business called for it, or if he wanted to hide from Crowley (which didn't always work); but for the most part (and he was most like 21st century humans in this way), he simply didn't see a need to go.

This time, he was there out of curiosity. There was a sermon about prayer (rather long-winded, but alas), which got him thinking. According to the humans―in fact, according to the Scriptures, the presumed word of God―humans didn't have to summon the Metatron to speak to God. All they had to do was send thoughts to the Lord Of The Universe, and then their prayers were delivered.

So he went home and decided to give it a try.

"Alright. _'Our Father, who..._ ' ah, no." Aziraphale looked around him. He was standing near where he usually drew the heavenly pentagram, and decided to move and sit down on his bed, which had last been used on the 4th of Neverary.

"Heavenly Mother. Hello. How are you? I'd like to know if you've received this transmission. If you could send me a sign, that would be splendid. But. Yeah. I need some help. Uhh...Amen." Aziraphale took a breath, and stood. He felt that he understood a small bit of what it was like for the Israelites during God’s silence towards them.

Nothing happened for a solid five minutes, so Aziraphale gave up. He went up to his bookshelf and selected 'Wicked' by Gregory Maguire (first edition, provided by Crowley in about 2003), then sat in his armchair.

A knock sounded on the bookshop door a good time later. (Maybe a few hours, maybe a day and a few hours...Aziraphale had no use for time anymore.) It was Crowley. Realizing this, Aziraphale stood to open it.

"Hello, dear," Aziraphale said, taking in Crowley's attire. His hair was grown out a bit, and his jacket was around his waist, leaving his torso covered by a sleeveless gray shirt.

"Hey, angel," Crowley beamed, stepping in and closing the door behind him. "How are you doing?"

"Mm...I'm doing good, my dear. You?"

Crowley hesitated, his gaze sweeping over Aziraphale. "You seem a bit. Er. Puh. Busy. In the mind. Conv- col―"

Aziraphale waved dismissively. "Yes, yes, convoluted, dear, shall we get drunk?"

―

About four bottles in, Crowley touched upon something about creation (and ducks, of course), and Aziraphale's synapses fired.

"C-Crowley, how do you talk to your superiors?" he asked, leaning forward and crossing his ankles.

"Mmhg!" Crowley pointed at Aziraphale with the bottle in his hand, and then swallowed what was in his mouth. "What do you mean―?"

"How do you talk to, er, the Great Adversary?"

"Like praying, you mean?" Crowley snorted. "I don't."

"Ah." Aziraphale seemed to process this, glancing over at Crowley, who abruptly leaped from his seat atop the back of a couch, losing his balance for a moment.

"Preoccupied! _That's_ the word. You were _preoccupied_."

They began to talk about all the rules that humans had put on grammar, and soon forgot about the whole prayer thing. This trend continued into the morning, as Aziraphale was more _preoccupied_ with getting the frenzy of limbs off his couch. It had a horrible hangover and wouldn't stop swearing and groaning.

After sending Crowley home, Aziraphale decided to go back to church. It was Sunday, and he realized that he was at a Saturday service the previous night, explaining the manner the pastor had of pausing and extrapolating on some things. First sermon jitters, perhaps, or just trial and error.

"...Unfortunately, many people have misconceptions about talking to God due to modern-day Pharisees. Doctrine and religion have nothing to do with an intimate relationship with our savior."

Aziraphale thought back. Who had told him he needed Metatron to speak to God? Gabriel, probably, but Crowley was right: Gabriel was a wanker. Then again, God didn't quite answer him when he prayed the human way. But did She answer the humans immediately?

He sat through the rest of the message, which was about false prophets, before pulling someone who looked like they knew what they were doing aside. It happened to be an older woman.

"Hello, ma'am," Aziraphale began. "I, well. I've got a question. When you― we― when I pray to God, is―" Aziraphale paused for a fraction of a second, remembering that God is genderless, and most humans preferred the male pronoun be employed― "is He supposed to answer right away?"

"What, in a verbal way?" the woman asked. "How do you mean?"

"Well, yes. How does He respond?"

"Usually you don't hear God, but sometimes He speaks into your mind in a way. Usually He answers in other ways, though. Convictions, divine inspiration, suchlike. It can be a tad confusing, without verbal direction, but He makes it all work out in the end. For instance, one time I asked him if I should marry my partner or not." (Aziraphale tried to regret where his mind rushed after this statement. He stored his thoughts in a mental compartment labeled _Later_ .) "Obviously, He didn't straight out tell me, _'Yes, Grace, go ahead!'_ But He did send a sort of gut feeling. It was more from the Holy Spirit, do you know who that is?"

"Yes."

"The Holy Spirit is like a messenger."

"Ah. Thank you, have a good afternoon!" Aziraphale beamed, striding out.

"Not a problem!" the woman called after him.

―

When Aziraphale was with Crowley, he found the demon revelled in his presence. Yes, of course Aziraphale also held him in high regard. But Crowley had attention issues, and often jumped from one subject to the next. What was surprising, though, was the fact that Aziraphale was like a homing beacon for his thoughts. It directed them, showed them where to go―which was almost a bit scary.

He figured that was what God was like to humans. At least, what God was _supposed_ to be like for humans. Evidently, this wasn't always the case; which is how the term 'idolatry' was coined. Overly religious people sometimes declared that if one didn't have God as that homing beacon, then they had an idol issue. Yet that was by no means the case for everyone. Quite a vast amount of humans had no direction, and that caused them to be emotionally or morally unstable. Of course, this can happen to anyone. There were still a few holes and kinks in that reasoning that Aziraphale needed to work out, as he was now less keen on chalking everything up to ineffability.

―

By the time Aziraphale got back, Crowley was lounging around in the bookshop parlor, suspiciously poking the spine of a book.

(The book in question happened to be one of those erotic novels that middle-aged women read, except this one was about a demon suitor. Go figure.)

“Ah! My dear! What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, startling.

"Aziraphale," Crowley said, sitting up. "I think I saw Gabriel. Unaided by God, but he's still trying to track you down."

"A-are you sure?"

"Well, I said _I think_ , didn't I?"

Aziraphale blew air from his lips. "Perhaps I should stay here until it blows over."

Extremely yellow eyes scrutinized Aziraphale. "You got a new book?"

"I may have."

"Would you make it wait if I, er, wanted to talk to you?"

Aziraphale sat down. "About what?"

"I- well- I want to…ekh." Crowley covered his face with his hands, and then shook his head. "Go ahead and read your book."

“Was it something about Gabriel? Because he may not be as big of a threat as it seems,” Aziraphale began.

“No-no-no,” Crowley said, “and anyway, Beelzebub and him joined forces at some point, didn’t they? And who can top that?”

A dangerously saccharine smile crossed Aziraphale’s face that would unsettle humans slightly. It highlighted Aziraphale's not-quite-human-ness and Crowley was forced to employ all of his self restraint to prevent turning over and screaming into the armrest. Then Aziraphale spoke: “What about the Almighty?”

Crowley let out a small squeak. He couldn’t stop it in time. “Like… do you mean… _Her_?”

“What other Almighty is there?” Aziraphale laughed.

“Ducks,” Crowley suggested quietly.

" _Almighty ducks_. Is that a new breed?" Aziraphale chuckled.

"I dunno, may as well be," he grumbled.

Aziraphale hummed. "I see. Anyways; what did you want to tell me?"

"Um, well, this isn't the greatest time, I realize, but, um. Better now than never, I guess, but actually maybe never would be better. Depends on where this goes. Where would I go, too? I dunno. My flat, I guess, but there's too much going on to take a depression nap. I could just miracle...no, I couldn't. Bless it all!"

"Wh― what?" Aziraphale asked, mildly confused. This sounded like the sort of thing Crowley would say when inebriated, minus the drunken spoonerisms that often occured in long tangents. "My dear boy, are you quite all right? Are you fully sober?"

"Aziraphale," Crowley said with sudden urgency. "How long have we been friends?"

"Well, there's no point in denying it now...quite a while, I'd say. Would you say five thousand years? We've been acquaintances about six thousand and twenty-three, but the friendliness was sort of off-and-on."

"Shit!" Crowley interjected, putting his hand on his forehead as if to shield his face.

"Dear, I think you need to go home and rest." Aziraphale paused. "Unless Gabriel's after you too? I suppose I'm not important enough to warrant both Beelzebub and Gabriel."

Crowley barked a laugh. "You are, angel. But yeah. They're after both of us. Our side. Y'know?" Aziraphale smiled wryly, and Crowley barked a laugh. "Can't believe you let me say that."

"Uh...my dear boy, are you feeling well?" Aziraphale asked, standing.

"I was gonna―"

"You were going to tell me something?"

"Something important. Uhh… oh! I used the holy water you gave me. Discorporated a demon and threatened another."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale chastised. "You must be more careful!"

"Angel, it's fine. Anyw―"

"How long we've been friends. You were saying something like that."

"Angel, I...you love everything, and everyone, right? You're an angel."

"Of course, my dear."

"You love me."

Aziraphale hesitated. "Well, yes, of course I do."

"But I'm on the opposing side," Crowley muttered, standing up and looking at Aziraphale in the face. "You aren't supposed to."

" _Love your enemy, and pray for those who persecute you,_ " Aziraphale quoted.

"Wh...wh. We were both in Greece. They have different interpretations of love. There's G- er, Her love―"

"Agope."

"That's what you've got for everyone?"

"That's what I have for everyone."

"What about…" Crowley trailed off, turning his head to the side. Aziraphale heaved a sigh, knowing what was coming next.

"Crowley, I don't really think this is a good time, I don't want to talk about this yet―"

"Demons can't love, right?" Now Crowley was seated again, on the arm of a chair. "Does that mean I'm not a demon, or does that mean it's not love?"

"My dear boy, what are you saying?" Aziraphale asked, putting a lingering hand on his friend's arm.

"Demons should only love evil, if anything. I've failed. I'm a failure! I'm disobeying everything! Mnghf!"

Withdrawing his hand to fold his arms over his chest, Aziraphale surveyed Crowley. "You need help," was his diagnosis. He delivered help by embracing the demon unexpectedly.

"Nmp," Crowley's muffled voice said. "Angel, I don't―"

Aziraphale's thick arms were wrapped around Crowley's torso, with his soft angel stomach pressing against Crowley, and the demon's brain short circuited.

"I― y― hguh," Crowley said with great brevity, before giving up and nestling his head into the crook of Aziraphale's shoulder.

"There you go, dear," Aziraphale whispered softly. "If you don't want to talk about it, we can just―"

"Yes," Crowley interrupted pointedly, grabbing at Aziraphale's back. "Good."

"Good," parroted Aziraphale.

They remained comfortably like that for a good while ― time was of no importance to them right now. Eventually, Crowley opened up. He tried to speak and began to sob, something Aziraphale did not expect. Nonetheless, he kept encouraging Crowley as he spoke.

"I j- I can't get you off my bloody mind, angel, and I always- oh, I don't know. Maybe I focus on you too much. Maybe everything reminds me of you in some way. I want the best for you, and if that means that I'm out of the picture, I'll do it. I don't think love is the right word, but I'm hands down obsessed with you. Is...is that all right? Oh, Sa- Somebody, I can't―"

Most words were punctuated with a gasping inhale or more crying, but towards the end of his brief monologue, Crowley regained, at the least, control of his voice pitching. He laughed a bit through his tears, and waited for Aziraphale to answer.

"Of course it's all right, dear," Aziraphale said, holding his own emotions in the best he could. "In fact…" he looked down at the hand Crowley had rested on his leg. He then took it in his own, and continued, "Me too."

"Oh," Crowley breathed. "Oh!"

A restrained smile swept across Aziraphale's face as if he wasn't sure if he wanted it there or not.

"Can I…?" Crowley asked quietly.

Aziraphale nodded, and they held each other close, grasping at each other's corporeal forms as if it was a lifesaver in a tumbling ocean. Outside their door, the forces of evil and good joined together in pursuit of wayward souls. They were unaware, though, and soon Aziraphale's sturdy fingers found their way into Crowley's grown out hair, and all of a sudden Aziraphale was asking, Can I kiss you? And Crowley was saying, Oh, please do; and the magnitude of their nonhuman emotions could have very easily alerted an archangel (who can inexplicably sense love) to their location.

Usually they would be able to identify such threats, but each was too caught up in the feeling of belonging; it was as if they had been created to do this.

Despite this, Aziraphale felt it before he saw it. There stood Gabriel, wielding a weapon so bright that Aziraphale could not identify what it was. And next to him, Beelzebub, with an instrument that would make the Spanish Inquisition run in terror. The fear radiating from Aziraphale told Crowley all he needed to know, so he did not look up. His face showed signs of his anguish, and anyways, it wasn't as if he wanted the Lord of Hell and the Most Arsehole Archangel to see him like that.

In a moment of desperation, Crowley realized that this might be the end. He was very certain that he didn't want to be ended. So he opened his mouth and began to pray.

Aziraphale blinked pointedly, and wrapped one arm around Crowley, taking the other to wield his newly summoned flaming sword. Crowley kept speaking rapidly, and Gabriel opened his mouth. It was full of eyes. He spoke in echoes and could barely hold together his corporeal form.

"Principality Aziraphale, you have done too much. The power of Hell may not be able to destroy you, but you stand no match against the power of God."

Beelzebub wrinkled their forehead as Gabriel continued, "Lord, bring down your wrath upon this sinful ally of evil!"

Since Aziraphale was watching Beelzebub's expression carefully, expecting the Lord of Hell to say something next, he only saw lightning out of his peripheral, and then Gabriel was lying on the ground, not breathing (as usual), and the archangel's weapon was gone. Crowley was clinging tighter to the principality, and asked quietly, "Does that mean She's on our side?"

"Don't worry, Crowley, we still have my weapon," Beelzebub said, raising a hand with a dangerous device in it. Worse than before, though; for it had changed into a spiritual weapon.

"You can't," said Crowley, unwilling to believe Beelzebub was really about to do this. Aziraphale recognized it too.

"I don't want to fall," he realized vocally. Then he turned back to Beelzebub, Lord of Hell, High Servant to The Adversary, and said, "God bless you."

Flames of light erupted on the spot and Crowley clung to Aziraphale. As Beelzebub shrieked and diminished, Crowley blinked. That was very quick.

A record player deep in the shop began playing _Teo Torriatte._ Crowley broke into tears and Aziraphale shut down, feeling nothing. Nonetheless, he consoled his friend, letting Crowley grasp him and hold on tight.

 _Let us cling together as the years go by_ , said the record, so they did. Well, Crowley did. Aziraphale was wandering into an abyss of thoughts, feeling small. Obviously, he knew the ineffable plan was something that must be followed. But even if deliberately disobeyed, God's Providence would find a way. And yet, to think that a small petition from part of his expansive, infinite creation could alter reality and still be part of Her unaltered plan…it was truly ineffable. Words escaped it.

"Angel―" Crowley choked out eventually, just to be shushed by a quiet _shh_ from Aziraphale.

"Yes."

"We never―"

Aziraphale turned, and Crowley let his words fall away. His angel― _his_ angel?―smiled; Crowley felt a warmth bubbling up from his stomach. Their eyes met, and the world truly seemed to disappear. There was nothing but vast space all around them. And, as objects outside of a larger gravitational pull often are, they were quite attracted to each other. So they collided, becoming one.

And God said it was Good.


End file.
